In Parvatipuram, there lived a merchant named Sunanda. He used to run his business by fulfilling the needs of the people. He had two sons – the elder one, Anand, and the younger one, Vinay. Anand completed his education at the gurukul and returned home, while Vinay was still studying.
Anand told his father that he didn’t want to work under anyone, and instead, he wanted to start a profitable business of his own—one that would also provide employment to others. Hearing this, Sunanda was very happy and made arrangements to help Anand start a business in a nearby town.
He chose an auspicious time for the opening and invited Anand’s guru, Medho Nath, to bless the occasion. The guru, moved by his affection for Anand, came for the inauguration. In the presence of his guru, Anand performed the rituals and made his first sale.
To show his respect, Anand offered silk clothes and thamboolam (a traditional token of respect) to his guru and bowed to him. Accepting them, Guru Medho Nath blessed him saying, “May your business grow like the saying—three types of goods, six kinds of deals. But for that, you must follow three conditions. First, you must come and go without being seen. Second, receive with one hand and give with the other. Third, always eat five-course feasts. Follow these, and you will reach great heights in business, my son!”
“Yes, Guruji! With your blessings, my business will flourish just as I dreamed,” Anand replied happily.
Standing beside them, Sunanda could not understand the meaning behind the guru’s blessing. The conditions seemed strange to him. “What kind of blessing is this, filled with such odd conditions?” he thought to himself.
Guru Medho Nath sensed this and turned to Anand, asking, “My son, did you understand the deeper meaning of my blessing?”
Anand replied, “Yes, Guruji, I understood it clearly.”
“Then explain the meaning of these conditions to your father,” the guru instructed.
Anand nodded in agreement and turned to his father. “Guruji’s first condition was to go and return without being seen,” he began.
Sunanda interrupted, “How is that possible? When going out for business, you meet many people. Business means interacting with customers. How can one go unseen?”
Anand smiled and said, “Listen to the deeper meaning. He meant that I should leave for work at dawn and return only after sunset. If I go late in the morning, I’ll see many others along the way, and by then, other merchants would already have done a lot of business. But if I start early, I’ll have more time and more opportunities.”
“I see! That makes sense. What about the second condition—receiving with one hand and giving with the other?” asked Sunanda.
Anand explained, “Customers often try to buy on credit. If we keep giving goods on credit, the business won’t survive. Later, when asked to repay, some customers avoid us. That’s why Guruji advised me to take cash with one hand and deliver the goods with the other—no credit.”
“That’s very sensible. And what about the third condition? He told you to always eat five-course meals. Is that practical? If you eat like that daily, you’ll lose money—and it could even cause indigestion!” said Sunanda.
Anand laughed and replied, “Guruji didn’t mean literal feasts. He meant that I should work so hard that I feel truly hungry before eating. When someone is really hungry, even a simple meal feels like a royal feast. So, work hard, earn your hunger, and only then eat. That was his advice.”
Satisfied with his son’s explanation, Sunanda’s face lit up with happiness.
Guru Medho Nath then praised Anand, saying, “Well done! You have truly proven yourself my disciple. You’ve understood the essence of my message.”
Sunanda expressed heartfelt gratitude to the guru who had shaped his son into such a wise man.
In time, Anand not only earned great profits through his clever business sense, but also gained respect and fame.
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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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Title:One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam
Author: Devabrata Das (translated from Assamese by multiple translators)
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
1. A Night with Arpita
(‘Arpitar Erati’ translated by Meenaxi Barkotoki)
The side berth was created by lowering the back rests of the two single seats along the aisle of the compartment. Crouching in one corner of that berth, chin in her hands, eyes looking out of the window, could the expression on her face be called disinterest, or was it heartache? On the other hand, she had not the slightest curiosity about what was going on inside the compartment. Drawing the free end of her sari tightly around the upper half of her body, she had withdrawn even her feet into the cavity created by her sari. Her presence in the compartment seemed more like an absence. She seemed completely oblivious and unaware of her surroundings; her look betrayed a sense of resignation. Or perhaps of surrender.
Having positioned myself in the compartment, the sense of resignation that was evident in her demeanour attracted me to her the very first time that I looked at her attentively. I told myself that if I wrote a story someday on the girl, I would name her Arpita (the one who offers herself). Arpita what? Ganguly or Acharya, Roy or Majumdar? Because on hearing the Hindi strewn with Bengali words spoken by the girl’s father, (who had complained animatedly to the waiter about the stale fish served for the meal) I was certain that the girl was not an Assamese disguised in a sari, she was actually Bengali. Regardless of whether she was Assamese or Bengali, she was just a girl, a more or less pretty girl, and she was presently in another world, completely oblivious to her surroundings. Her entire being was concentrated on a point in the darkness of the world outside the compartment, a point that could easily be defined as infinity. Her absentminded beauty aroused my curiosity. Puffing at my Charminar cigarette I kept staring at her from my middle berth in the three-tiered compartment. Just then Kiran returned from the bathroom and broke my reverie. ‘What is this? Why are you already in bed? You don’t mean to go to bed so early, do you?’
This story is actually the story of Arpita and me. I am the protagonist, Arpita the heroine. Apart from the two of us, there is no need for anyone else in this story. The problem, however, is that in order to be able to describe the chain of events, the inclusion of some redundant characters becomes necessary; their presence in the story is not essential but without them it is difficult to narrate what happened. Among those extras, unnecessary characters actually, one is my friend Kiran Debnath. We work in the same office and it is on official work that both of us are travelling by train to another city. We had to travel at very short notice, so we had no reserved train seats; hence the second unnecessary character, Krishna, became necessary. Krishna lives in our neighbourhood. A young man barely out of his teens, he had recently joined the NF Railway as Travelling Ticket Inspector, in short TTI. The moment I saw him at the train station, I was relieved; we wouldn’t have to travel in the crowded, unreserved compartment after all. Since Krishna was there, with his help we would get at least two sitting seats for ourselves. But luckily there was not a huge rush that day and after doing the rounds, Krishna arranged two sleeping berths in a three-tier compartment for us. The sleeper charges for a night are five rupees fifty paise each, so eleven rupees in all. I gave him three five-rupee notes. He forgot to return the change. A little while after the train started, another uniformed ticket checker came and wrote out our reservation slips. The fourth unnecessary character in this story is Arpita’s father, who, after finishing the long and animated argument with the waiter about the stale fish served for dinner, turned his attention to his daughter. She was still staring out of the window. He told her to lie down and go to sleep, and gave her other sundry bits of advice, all of which were met with monosyllabic answers. He then climbed onto the upper berth, above his daughter. In a little while, his snoring proved that he was fast asleep. This is the last time I will mention these unnecessary characters, except for Kiran.
I told Kiran that we had a lot to do the next day. We would have to go through all the documents and records of our branch office in the town we were travelling to. It was not clear whether we would have any free time at all. So instead of sitting up chatting till late in the night, since we had secured two sleeping berths, it might be wiser to go to sleep. Like a good boy, Kiran agreed immediately and went to sleep in the berth below me. To tell the truth, I was not at all sleepy. If I had wanted to or if we were somewhere else, I would have easily chatted with Kiran for an hour or two. But at that moment, in that situation, the single-minded desire to enjoy the distracted attractiveness of a beautiful girl made me give up the wish to chat with Kiran.
Arpita sat immersed in herself on the rattling train, on that otherwise still night, ignoring the silent presence of the many other passengers sleeping in the compartment. No exam results had been declared recently. Then why was Arpita so unwaveringly distracted and sad? Was her pain intensely personal? For instance, had some sly lover cheated her and gone away, after having made a thousand promises of many-hued rainbows and eternal love? Or was there some complication in her recent wedding proposal? Had the partner that her parents chose for her, seen and approved of her but demanded a huge dowry, which made it completely impossible for her to leave her parents’ home? What could it be? What was her real story?
(Extracted from One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam by Devabrata Das, Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.)
About the Book:
In ‘A Night with Arpita’, a beautiful young girl in a train compartment captures the imagination of the writer—but he is unable to fathom the reason for her melancholy until it is too late. In ‘Ananta with His Seema’, three apparently disconnected incidents take place on a railway platform. Descriptions of the incidents are interspersed with passages from a letter written by Ananta’s friend, that lays bare his helplessness in the face of injustice and the loss of his youthful ideals.
In the eponymous story, life imitates art with a disastrous twist. A young couple treks up a hillside to recreate for themselves the experience of two characters in a love story set in idyllic Shillong. But the beauty of the pine shrouded hills is marred by extremist violence and their climb to the top of the hill has an unforeseen, macabre end.
Each of the eighteen stories, translated by multiple translators, in this collection provides an insight into life in an area of conflict, told with irony and ingenuity. Regarded as a torchbearer of post-modernism in Assamese literature, Das is often a character in his stories, blurring the distinction between writer and narrator and, often, between fiction and reality, leaving readers to construct their own endings. This first English translation of his work is a valuable addition to the pantheon of India’s regional literature.
About the Author
Devabrata Das is considered to be a torchbearer of post-modernism in Assamese literature, following in the footsteps of other great Assamese writers such as Saurav Kumar Chaliha and Bhabendra Nath Saikia. With more than twenty-five bestselling books to his credit in a career spanning more than four decades, his repertoire ranges from fiction to non-fiction, and from screenplays to reviews and critical essays. He received the Sahityarathi Lakshminath Bezbarua Award in 2018, the Sahitya Sanskriti Award of the literary organization Eka Ebong Koekjan in 2010, and the Tagore Literature Award of the Sahitya Akademi in 2011.
About the Translator
Meenaxi Barkotoki is a mathematician turned anthropologist by profession. An avid translator from Assamese into English, her most recent work includes a couple of novels, notably a children’s novel by Arupa Patangia Kalita titled Taniya (Puffin Classics, 2022). Her translations have appeared in newspapers and periodicals as well as in prestigious compilations like The Oxford Anthology of Writings from North-East India (OUP, 2011) and in Asomiya Handpicked Fictions (Katha, 2003). She also writes short stories, travel pieces and current interest articles, and her work has been published in newspapers, journals and magazines. She is a Founding Member of the North East Writers’ Forum.
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The death of Ramakanta Rath, a provocative figure in contemporary Odia poetry, has left a considerable gap in the literary landscape. Born on December 13, 1934, in Cuttack, Ramakanta was a prominent modernist poet in Odia literature. He obtained his Master’s degree in English Literature from Ravenshaw College and joined the Indian Administrative Services (IAS) in 1957.
His work was significantly shaped by the influences of poets such as T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, often delving into themes of mysticism, mortality, and human isolation. Ramakanta Rath’s contributions have profoundly impacted modern Odia literature in various ways. He brought modernist themes and styles to Odia poetry, drawing significant inspiration from Western poets such as T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. His examination of topics like the search for the mystical, the concepts of life and death, and the experience of inner solitude facilitated a transition in Odia poetry towards more contemporary and universal themes.
Rath’s poetry is marked by symbolic references to spiritual and metaphysical dimensions of existence, which enhanced the intellectual richness of Odia literature. This methodology enabled readers to engage with intricate philosophical concepts through the medium of poetry. Rath’s poetry is noted for its somber tone and symbolic references to the spiritual and metaphysical dimensions of existence.
His significant literary contributions include Kete Dinara (Of Bygone Days, 1962), Aneka Kothari (Many Rooms, 1967), Sandigdha Mrigaya (Suspicious Hunting, 1971), Saptama Ritu (The Seven Seasons, 1977), Sachitra Andhara (Picturesque Darkness, 1982), Sri Radha (1984), and Sri Palataka (Mr Escapist, 1997). Rath was honoured with the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1977, the Saraswati Samman in 1992 for Sri Radha, the Bishuva Samman in 1990, and the Padma Bhushan in 2006. He also received the Sahitya Akademi Fellowship in 2009 before which he was the vice-president of the Akademi.
Rath is particularly celebrated for his lengthy poem, Sri Radha, in which he reimagines Radha, freeing her from theological limitations and depicting her as a remarkable character who embodies deep emotions, love, defiance, and resilience. This poem uniquely intertwines themes of erotic love with existential introspection. This notable work initiated a new trend in Odia poetry that echoed the confessional styles of poets like Sylvia Plath, infusing a personal and introspective quality into Odia literature.
He skillfully combined traditional Odia poetic meters and techniques with contemporary free verse, creating a unique hallmark of his artistic expression. Odia poetry is characterised by its extensive use of classical meters and forms, such as chhanda, chautisa and champu which serve to articulate intricate emotions and themes in a structured and rhythmic manner. By incorporating these traditional elements, Rath infused his poetry with cultural richness and musicality, thereby amplifying its emotional resonance and thematic depth.
Ramakanta Rath’s integration of traditional Odia meter enriched his themes in multiple ways. By using these familiar poetic forms, his work connects more profoundly with readers who recognise them. This cultural connection amplifies the emotional resonance of his themes, making them easier for his audience to relate to. Additionally, traditional Odia meters often hold symbolic significance, which Rath skilfully utilises to deepen his modernist themes.
The combination of symbolic annotations and modernist concepts enhances Rath’s poetry, adding depth and encouraging reflection. By contrasting traditional forms with modernist ideas, his work creates a dynamic tension. This tension amplifies the emotional resonance of his poetry, prompting readers to navigate the clash between traditional values and contemporary realities, which adds layers to his themes. Rath’s incorporation of traditional meters with modern free verse invites readers to think critically about his poetry.
This fusion of styles encourages a deeper exploration of his themes, leading to a more profound appreciation of his work. While the traditional Odia meters offer a cultural base, Rath’s modernist themes keep his poetry relevant on a global scale. This interplay between tradition and modernity enables his work to reach beyond local confines, attracting a wider audience interested in existential and philosophical questions.
Rath’s poetry stands out for its masterful incorporation of irony and wit, elements that add depth and complexity to his body of work. Critics note that his use of irony can often be challenging to interpret, reflecting the nuanced and multifaceted nature of his poetic viewpoint. This unique approach, combined with his thematic explorations, has sparked a resurgence among a new generation of Odia poets, playing a crucial role in the advancement of modern Odia literature.
Ramakanta Rath’s impact has been instrumental in shaping the landscape of contemporary Odia poetry, solidifying his reputation as a monumental figure in the realm of Indian literature today. His passing signifies the conclusion of a significant era in the narrative of Odia literature, leaving behind a legacy that will continue to inspire future writers and poets.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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In a small forest next to Ramapuram, there lived a crow and a monkey who were friends. They would help each other when needed, but they were mischievous by nature and often looked for opportunities to harass others. Over time, they befriended a cunning jackal, and the three would team up to trouble travelers passing through.
The residents of Ramapuram and nearby villages had to cross this small forest to reach the town. Whenever a traveler passed through the forest with a bag in hand, the monkey would jump from the tree and snatch the bag, hoping to find food inside. It would climb up a tree, rummage through the contents, and if there was anything edible, it would keep it, tossing the rest to the ground. The monkey would then mock the traveler, showing its teeth and laughing at their distress. Once the traveler left, the monkey would share the food with its friends.
The crow, on the other hand, would swoop down and peck at the travelers’ heads with its beak or legs, causing them to flinch. If anyone rested under a tree, the crow would defecate on them and then hide in the branches, laughing at their misery.
The jackal was skilled at imitating the roar of a tiger. It would hide behind a tree and roar like a tiger, scaring the travelers who would then run away in fear, much to the jackal’s delight.
One day, a farmer named Rama from the neighbouring village of Shantipuram was passing through the forest. He was on his way to buy jewelry for his daughter’s wedding, carrying money in his bag. The monkey, mistaking the bag for food, leaped in front of Rama and snatched the bag, quickly climbing a tree. “Oh no, my bag!” cried Rama as he ran after the monkey. But the monkey, sitting on a branch, began searching through the bag. Finding nothing to eat, it became angry and tore the money into pieces, throwing them down.
Seeing this, Rama was filled with both sadness and anger. He spotted a dry branch on the ground and thought of using it to threaten the monkey. But before he could act, the crow swooped down and pecked him on the head. Meanwhile, the jackal, hiding behind a tree, roared like a tiger. Terrified, Rama ran away from the forest.
When he reached his village, Rama told the villagers what had happened. The villagers felt sorry for him and promised to help with his daughter’s wedding expenses.
A young man in the village suggested, “I know a sorcerer. Let’s tell him about this and put an end to these troubles.” So they took Rama to the sorcerer.
After hearing the story, the sorcerer said, “I will secretly observe what’s happening in the forest and punish the culprits.” He kept his promise and observed the mischief of the crow, monkey, and jackal for a few days to understand their behavior completely. Then, he devised a plan and set out for the forest.
When the monkey saw the sorcerer coming with a bag in hand, it followed its usual habit and jumped down to snatch the bag. But the moment its hand touched the bag, it stuck to it. No matter how hard the monkey tried, it couldn’t free itself. The sorcerer had applied strong glue to the bag beforehand, knowing this would happen. The monkey screeched in fear.
Hearing the monkey’s cries, the crow flew down intending to peck the sorcerer. But the sorcerer quickly threw a net over the crow, trapping it.
Meanwhile, the jackal, watching the humiliation of its friends from a distance, tried to roar like a tiger again. It went behind a tree to hide, but the sorcerer’s disciple, who had been waiting there, threw another net over the jackal, capturing it.
Realising that the sorcerer was not an ordinary traveler, the animals pleaded, “Oh, please forgive us. We won’t trouble anyone anymore.”
The sorcerer laughed and asked, “When you were troubling the travelers, where was your sense of right and wrong? Now that you’re in trouble, you suddenly confess and promise to end your mischief? How can you chnge so quickly?”
They replied, “We never expected someone like you would come. Please let us go. We promise to live without bothering anyone.”
The sorcerer, however, was unmoved. “There’s no question of letting you go. I will hand you over to the zoo so that travelers passing through this forest won’t be troubled anymore.”
The animals pleaded once again, “We’ve learned our lesson. Please let us go.”
Even the sorcerer’s disciple requested, “Please forgive them and let them go.”
But the sorcerer responded, “Don’t show mercy on these creatures. The monkey tore up Ramayya’s money. I’ll release the crow, and if it ever causes trouble again, I’ll capture it and starve it to death in a cage. I’ll train the monkey to perform tricks and take it with us for shows. As for the jackal, I’ll hand it over to the zoo.”
And the sorcerer did exactly as he said. He disciplined the three of them and put an end to their mischief. From that day on, travelers passing through the forest were no longer troubled by the crow, monkey, or jackal.
From Public Domain
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Tumi Kon Kanoner Phulby Tagore andAnjali Loho Morby Nazrul, love songs by the two greats, have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
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Conversations
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Chintu, a fifth-grader, was known for his intelligence beyond his years. Every day, he walked a mile to school by himself. When his parents offered to accompany him, he confidently replied, “I can go by myself. I’m grown up now.” Since their village, Seethanagaram, was a small town, there wasn’t much fear of children being abducted or harmed, so his parents didn’t object.
One day, Chintu woke up early and set out for school earlier than usual. He packed a small spade, a water bottle, and his books into his schoolbag and slung it over his shoulder.
His mother, who had been observing him, asked, “Why are you leaving so early? There’s still time for school.”
“I have some work, mother. I’ll tell you when I come back,” Chintu replied.
On his way to school, Chintu spotted some discarded mango seeds. He carefully picked out the good ones and walked a little further from the road. Using his small spade, he dug holes and buried the seeds. Then, he poured some water from his bottle over them.
As Chintu was about to leave, an old beggar woman sitting under a nearby tree called out, “Come here, boy.”
Chintu approached her and greeted her politely.
“I saw you planting those seeds. That’s a good deed. But who will water them every day?” she asked.
“I pass this way to school every day. I will water them,” Chintu replied.
While talking to the old woman, Chintu noticed she looked weak and was coughing frequently. Concerned, he asked, “Do you have a fever? Have you eaten anything?”
“I don’t have the strength to move. I haven’t gone anywhere and haven’t eaten anything either,” the old woman replied.
“Oh no, that’s not good,” said Chintu, opening his lunch box and offering her some food.
The old woman hesitated. “You’ll be hungry in school. Don’t worry about me, son. I’m used to this.”
“Don’t worry about me. My friends will share their food with me,” Chintu reassured her. He then gave her water to drink and asked some passersby to help take her to the hospital before heading to school.
After school, on his way back home, Chintu saw a small puppy being chased by a big dog. The puppy, terrified, ran in search of shelter, letting out pitiful cries. It squeezed through the gate of a house, but the house dog barked at it, causing it to retreat. The puppy then ran into an alley, where a pig scared it further. Not knowing what to do, the puppy let out a helpless whimper.
Seeing the puppy in distress, Chintu took out his spade and used it to chase away the big dog. He picked up the trembling puppy and comforted it, saying, “Don’t be scared. I chased it away.”
Just then, a woman from the house across the street came outside and noticed the puppy in Chintu’s arms. “Its mother died in an accident while crossing the road. You can take it home if you want to raise it,” she said.
Without a second thought, Chintu took the puppy home.
When Chintu’s mother saw him with the puppy, she frowned. “Why did you bring a puppy home? It will make a mess everywhere. Leave it where you found it.”
“Poor thing… its mother died, and a big dog and a pig were chasing it. It was so frightened. Let’s take care of it for a while. We can let it go later. First, give it some food and milk,” Chintu pleaded.
“You seem to be taking on more responsibilities than necessary. You should be focusing on school, not trying to act like a grown-up,” his mother scolded.
“But if everyone thought that way, who would help those in need? Grown-ups can’t always do everything, and if kids aren’t allowed to help either, then who will assist those in trouble? Remember when you asked me this morning where I was going early? Let me explain now. I heard my teacher say that many people throw away mango seeds after eating the fruit. He said they shouldn’t go to waste. So, I buried some seeds by the roadside, and I’ll water them every day. There was an old woman with a fever under a tree. I gave her my lunch, and she was so happy. She blessed me,” Chintu said, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Is that so? You did a good thing. Keep helping others whenever you can. I’ll get some food for the puppy. Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it for a while and then find it a good home,” his mother said kindly.
“Let’s do that. I didn’t tell you this morning because I thought you might scold me. But now I know you’re kind-hearted and will understand. From now on, I’ll tell you everything I plan to do,” Chintu promised.
“You’re my precious child,” his mother said, hugging him lovingly.
From Public Domain
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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In Conversation with Malashri Lal, about her debut poetry collection, Mandalas of Time, Hawakal Publishers
Professor Malashree Lal
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable.
‘Mandalas’ means circle in Sanskrit, the root, or at last the influencer, of most of the Indian languages in the subcontinent. Sanskrit belongs to the Indo-Germanic family, which homes Latin and Greek among other languages. Malashri Lal, a former professor in Delhi University, has called her poetry collection Mandalas of Time.
Her poetry reiterates the cyclical nature of the title, loaning from the past to blend the ideas with the present and stretching to assimilate the varied colours of cultures around the world.
Embracing an array of subjects from her heritage to her family — with beautiful touching poems for her grandchild — to migrants and subtle ones on climate change too, the words journey through a plethora of ideas. Nature plays an important role in concretising and conveying her thoughts. In one of the poems there is a fleeting reference to wars — entwined with the Pilkhan (fig) tree:
The Pilkhan tree thinks of its many years Of shedding leaves, bearing inedible fruit, of losing limbs But smiles at his troubles being far less Than of unfortunate humans Who kill each other in word and deed But gather around the tree each Christmas With fulsome gifts and vacant smiles To bring in another New Year.
--Another New Year
Amaltas (Indian Laburnum) or Bougainvillea bind her love for nature to real world issues:
Only the Amaltas roots, meshed underground Thrust their tendrils into the earth’s sinews below. Sucking moisture from the granular sand, desperately. The golden flowers pendent in the sun, mock the traveller Plump, succulent, beacon-like, they tease with The promise of water Where there is none.
--Amaltas in Summer
And…
The Bougainvillea is a migrant tree, blossom and thorn That took root in our land And spread its deception Of beauty.
--Bougainvillea
Her most impactful poems are women centric.
Words crushed into silence Lips sealed against utterance Eyes hooded guardedly Body cringing into wrinkled tightness Is this what elders called ‘Maidenly virtue?’
--Crushed
There is one about a homeless woman giving birth at Ratlam station during the pandemic chaos, based on a real-life incident:
Leave the slum or pay the rent Who cares if she is pregnant, Get out — go anywhere. … Ratlam station; steady hands lead her to the platform. Screened by women surrounding her A kind lady doctor takes control. Pooja sees a puckered face squinting into the first light. "This is home," she mutters wanly, "Among strangers who cut the cord and feed my newborn,”
-- Ladies Special
In another, she writes of Shakuntala — a real-world migrant who gave birth during the covid exodus. She birthed a child and within the hour was on her way to her home again — walking. It reminds one of Pearl S Buck’s description of the peasant woman in Good Earth (1931) who pauses to give birth and then continues to labour in the field.
Most interesting is her use of mythology — especially Radha and Sita — two iconic characters out of Indian lore. In one poem, she finds a parallel to “Sita’s exile” in Italy, at Belisama’s shrine. In another, she finds the divine beloved Radha, who was older to Krishna and married to another, pining after the divinity when he leaves to pursue his life as an adult. And yet, she questions modern stances through poems on more historical women who self-immolated themselves when their husbands lost in battle!
Malashri Lal has turned her faculties post-retirement to literary pursuits. One of her co- authored books around the life of the poet Michael Madhusudan Dutt, received the Kalinga award for fiction. She currently serves on the English advisory board of Sahitya Akademi. In this conversation, Lal discusses her poetry, her journey and unique perceptions of two iconic mythological women who figure in her poetry.
When did you start writing poetry?
Possibly my earliest poetry was written when I was about twelve, struggling with the confusing emotions of an adolescent. I would send off my writing to The Illustrated Weekly which used to have pages for young people, and occasionally I got published. After that, I didn’t write poetry till I was almost in my middle age when the personal crisis of losing my parents together in a road accident brought me to the outpourings and healing that poetry allows.
What gets your muse going?
Emotional turmoil, either my own or what I observe within the paradigms of social change. With my interest in women’s issues, my attention is arrested immediately when I hear or read about injustice, violence, exploitation or negligence of women or girl children. It doesn’t have to be a dramatic or extreme event but even the simple occurrences of decision making by a husband without consulting his wife has me concerned about the dignity and agency of a woman. Some poems like “Escape”, hint at such inequality that society takes for granted. On the other hand, my poems about migrant women giving birth on the long march to a hypothetical village “home” during the pandemic, are vivid transferences from newspaper stories. “Ladies Special” is about Pooja Devi giving birth at Ratlam station; “The Woman Migrant Worker” is based on a report about Shakuntala who stopped by the roadside to give birth to a baby and a few hours later, joined the walking crowd again.
Why did you name your poetry book Mandalas of Time?
To me ‘Mandalas’ denote centres of energy. Each node, though distinct in itself, coheres with the others that are contiguous, thus resulting in a corporeal body of interrelatedness. My poems are short bursts of such energy, concentrated on a subject. They are indicative of a situation but not prescriptive in offering solutions. Hence the spiritual energy of ‘Mandalas’, a term used in many traditions, seemed best suited to my offering of poems written during periods of heightened consciousness and introspection. The poems are also multilayered, hence in constant flux, to be interpreted through the reader’s response. Many of them end in questions, as I do not have answers. The reader is implicitly invited to peruse the subject some more . It’s not about closure but openness. See for instance: “Crushed”, or “Shyamoli”.
Today, I rebel and tug at a Divided loyalty — The feudal heritage of my childhood Fights off the reformist Bengali lineage, My troubled feminism struggling Between Poshak and Purdah White Thaan and patriotism Can one push these ghosts aside?
--Shyamoli *Poshak: Rajasthani dress *Thaan: White saree worn by the Bengali widow
You have written briefly of your mixed heritage, also reflected in your poem dedicated to Tagore, in whose verses it seems you find resolution. Can you tell us of this internal clash of cultures? What exactly evolved out of it?
My bloodline is purely Bengali but my parents nor I ever lived in Bengal. My father was in the IAS in the Rajasthan cadre and my mother, raised in Dehradun, did a lot of social work. In the 1950s and 1960s, Rajasthan was economically and socially confined to a feudal heritage and a strictly hierarchical structure. Rama Mehta’s novel Inside the Haveli (1979), describes this social construction with great sensitivity. Elite homes had separate areas for men and women, and, within that, a layout of rooms and courtyards that were defined for specific use by specified individuals according to their seniority or significance. Such hierarchies existed in Bengal too — the ‘antarmahal[1]’ references bear this out — but the multiple layers in Rajasthan seemed more restrictive.
In my “mixed heritage” of being born of Bengali parents but raised in Rajasthan, I started noting the contrasts as well as the similarities. I recall that when my father went on tours by jeep into the interior villages along rutted roads, I would simply clamber on. At one time I lived in a tent, with my parents, during the entire camel fair at Pushkar. I would listen to the Bhopa singers of the Phad painting tradition late into the evening. So my understanding and experience of Rajasthan is deep into its roots.
Phad paintingBhopa singersFrom Public Domain
Bengal– that is only Calcutta and Santiniketan–I know through my visits to grandparents, aunts and uncles. My cousins and I continue to be very close. I saw a fairly elite side of Calcutta—the Clubs, the Race Course, the restaurants on Park Street, the shopping at New Market, and sarees displays at Rashbehari Avenue. Santiniketan though was different. I was drawn to the stories of the Santhal communities, visited their villages, attended the Poush Mela[2] regularly and knew several people in the university. After Delhi, the wide-open spaces, the ranga maati (red soil), the Mayurakhi River, and the tribal stories were fascinating. I am fluent in Bengali and because of my relatives in Calcutta as well as Santiniketan, I never felt an outsider. My father’s side of the family has been at Viswa Bharati since the time of Rabindranath Tagore. So, I felt comfortable in that environment. And through an NGO called Women’s Interlink Foundation, established by Mrs Aloka Mitra, I had easy access to Santhal villages such as Bonerpukur Danga.
Poush Mela, started by the Tagore Family in 1894Santhali Performance at Poush Mela
However, in summary, though I lived with both the strains of Bengal and Rajasthan, the daily interaction in Jaipur where I received all my education till PhD, was more deeply my world. The fragmented identity that some poems convey is a genuine expression of figuring out a cultural belonging. Poems such as “To Rabindranath Tagore” helped me to understand that one can have multiple exposures and affiliations and be enriched by it.
Do you feel — as I felt in your poetry — that there is a difference in the cultural heritage of Bengal and Rajasthan that leads you to be more perceptive of the treatment of women in the latter state? Please elaborate.
Indeed, you are right. Bengal has a reformist history, and my family are Brahmo Samaj followers. Education for women, choice in marriage partner, ability to take up a career were thought to be possible. My paternal grandmother, Jyotirmoyi Mukerji, was one of the early graduates from Calcutta University; she worked as an Inspectress of Schools, often travelling by bullock carts, and she married a school teacher who was a little younger than her. They together chose to live in Rangoon in undivided India, heading a school there. These were radical steps for women in the late 19th century. My father grew up in Rangoon and came to Rajasthan as a refugee during the Second World War. My grandmother, who lived with us, was a tremendous influence denoting women’s empowerment. But what we saw around us in Jaipur was the feudal system and purdah for women in Rajasthan.
Fortunately, Maharani Gayatri Devi had set up a school in 1943 in Jaipur to bring modern thinking in the women, and I was fortunate to study there till I went to university. Let’s recall that Maharani Gayatri Devi was from Coochbehar (Bengal) and had studied at Santiniketan. She brought Bengal’s progressive ideas to the privileged classes of Rajasthan. My classmates were mostly princesses. I visited their homes and families and delved deeply into their history of feudalism. Without being judgmental, I must say that Rajasthan’s heritage is very complex and one must understand the reasons behind many practices and not condemn them.
You have brought in very popular mythological characters in your poems — Sita and Radha — both seen from a perspective that is unusual. Can you explain the similarity between Sita’s exile and Belisama’s shrine (in Italy)? Also why did you choose to deal with Radha in a post-Krishna world?
Namita Gokhale and I have completed what is popularly known as the “Goddess Trilogy”. After In Search of Sita and Finding Radha, the latest book, Treasures of Lakshmi: The Goddess Who Gives, was launched in February 2024 at the Jaipur Literature Festival, and the Delhi launch was on 8th October 2024 to invoke the festive season.
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In answering your question let me say that myth is storytelling, an indirect way of contending with issues that are beyond ordinary logic or understanding. Sita and Belisama coming together is an illustration of what I mean. The backstory is that Namita Gokhale and I had a joint residency at Villa Serbelloni in Bellagio (Italy) and we were revising the final manuscript of our book In Search of Sita. The thrust of that book is to recall the strength of Sita in decision making, in being supportive of other women, in emerging as an independent minded person. Our research had unearthed a lot of new material including oral history and folklore. In Bellagio, we started enquiring about local mythical stories and chanced upon Belisama,[3] a Celtic goddess known for her radiant fire and light, and in the village we chanced upon an old grotto like structure. Unlike in India, where we have a living mythology of commonly told and retold tales, in Italy the ancient legends were not remembered. The poem “Bellagio, Italy” took shape in my imagination bringing Sita and Belisama, two extraordinary women, together.
As to my poems on Radha, I cannot think of a “post-Krishna” world since Vrindavan and Mathura keep alive the practices that are ancient and continuous. Radha is the symbol of a seeker and Krishna is the elusive but ever watchful divine. They are body and soul, inseparable. The stories about “Radha’s Flute” or “Radha’s Dilemma” in poems by those names have an oral quality about them. The craft of writing is important, and for me, the theme decides the form.
Interesting, as both the poems you mention made me think of Radha after Krishna left her for Rukmini, for his role in an adult world. You have a poem on Padmini. Again, your stance is unusual. Can you explain what exactly you mean — can self-immolation be justified in any way?
This is a poem embedded in the larger query about comparative cultural studies. Rani Padmini’s story was written by Jayasi[4] in 1540, and it described a ‘heroic’ decision by Padmini that she and her handmaidens should commit Jauhar (mass self-immolation) rather than be taken prisoners and face humiliation and violent abuse by the men captors. You will note that my poem ends on a question mark: “I ask you if you can rewrite /values the past held strong?” Self-immolation has to be seen in the context of social practices at the time of Padmini (13-14th queen in Mewar, Rajasthan). The jauhar performed by Rani Padmini of Chittor is narrated even now through ballads and tales extolling the act if one goes into oral culture. But there is counter thinking too, as was evident in the controversy over Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s film Padmavat (2018) which stirred discussions on historicity, customary practice and oral traditions. Sati and Jauhar are now punishable offences under Indian law, but in recording oral history can one change the storyline? It’s not just self-immolation that comes under such a category of questioning the past — polygamy, polyandry, child marriage, prohibitions on widows and many other practices are to be critiqued in modern discourse, but one cannot rewrite what has already been inscribed in an old literary text.
This is a question that draws from what I felt your poems led to, especially, the one on Padmini. Do you think by changing text in books, history can be changed?
“History” is a matter of perspective combined with the factual record of events and episodes. Who writes the “history” and in what circumstances is necessary to ask. The narration or interpretation of history can be changed, and sometimes ought to be. To take an obvious case why is the “Sepoy Mutiny” of 1857 now referred to as the “First War of Independence”? In current discussions on Rana Pratap[5] in Rajasthan’s history, there are documents in local languages that reinterpret the Haldighati battle of 1576 not as the Rana’s defeat but his retreat into the forests and setting up his new kingdom in Chavand where he died in 1597. The colonial writers of history—at least in Rajasthan– were dependent on local informers and had little understanding of the vast oral repertoire of the state. Even Col. James Tod’s Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (1829) about the history, culture, and geography of some areas in Rajasthan, is often reproducing what he has heard from the bards and balladeers which are colourful and hyperbolic renderings as was the custom then. In Bengal, the impact of Tod is seen in Abanindranath Tagore’s[6]Rajkahini (1946), which is storytelling rather than verified facts. I feel history cannot be objective, it is author dependent.
Nature, especially certain trees and plants seem to evoke poetry in you. It was interesting to see you pick a fig tree for commenting on conflicts. Why a Pilkhan tree?
The Pilkhan is an enormous, bearded old fig tree that lives in our garden and is a witness to our periodic poetic gatherings. Mandalas of Time is dedicated to “The Poets under the Pilkhan Tree” because my book emerged from the camaraderie and the encouragement of this group. I see the tree as an observer and thinker about social change—it notes intergenerational conflict in “Another New Year”, it offers consolation against the terrors of the pandemic in the poem “Krishna’s Flute”. It’s my green oasis in an urban, concrete-dominated Delhi. In the evening the birds chirp so loudly that we cannot hear ourselves speak. Squirrels have built nests into the Pilkhan’s wide girth. It’s not a glamorous tree but ordinary and ample—just as life is. By now, my poet friends recognise the joy of sharing their work sitting in the shadow of this ancient giant. There are no hierarchies of age or reputation here. We are the chirping birds—equal and loquacious!
You have successfully dabbled in both poetry and fiction, what genre do you prefer and why?
Mandalas of Time is my first book of poems and it comprises of material written unselfconsciously over decades. During the pandemic years, I decided to put the manuscript together, urged by friends. Meanwhile my poems started appearing in several journals.
As to fiction, I’ve published a few short stories and I tend to write ghostly tales set in the mountains of Shimla. Its possibly the old and the new that collides there that holds my attention. I’ve been urged to write a few more and publish a book—but that may take a while.
Should we be expecting something new from your pen?
Mandalas of Time has met with an amazing response in terms of reviews, interviews, speaking assignments, and online presentations. The translation in Hindi by 13 well known poets is going into print very soon. Permission has been sought for a Punjabi translation. I’m overwhelmed by this wide empathy and it is making me consider putting together another book of poems.
Title: Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati
Editor: Monica Das
Publisher: Sahitya Akademi
Fakir Mohan Senapati (1843-1918) is a prominent figure in Indian literature and a key advocate for Odia nationalism. Born in Mallikashapur, Odisha, he faced significant hardships, losing both parents by age two and being raised by his grandmother with limited education.
Senapati is celebrated for his pioneering works, including the first modern Odia short story, “Rebati,” and novels like Chha Mana Atha Guntha (Six Acres and a Third) , Mamu (Uncle), and Prayaschita (Atomement), which address social issues and the lives of ordinary people, emphasizing social justice and peasant struggles.
His impact transcends the realm of literature; he was instrumental in promoting the unique identity of the Odia language during times of external challenges. His literary contributions facilitated the de-Sanskritisation of Odia, thereby rendering literature more accessible to the general public. He continues to embody the pride and cultural identity of the Odia people.
Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati by Monica Das is characterised by its relevance and authenticity. The compilation and editing, originating from Sahitya Akademi, reflect a high level of quality, with the editor having meticulously attended to every detail.
Monica Das is an Associate Professor of Economics at Gargi College, University of Delhi, and a fellow at the Developing Countries Research Centre. Her research focuses on feminist economics, and she is involved with the International Association for Feminist Economics (IAFFE). Her own works include Tales of the Girl Child in India and The Other Woman, which examine the socio-economic impacts of underage marriage and polygamy on gender development. She also produced the film Anwesan, highlighting the life of her great-grandfather, Fakir Mohan Senapati. She oversees the Fakir Mohan Foundation, which promotes Odisha’s cultural heritage and addresses social challenges, particularly those affecting women.
Putting together a collection can be quite a challenge. It has to open up different viewpoints and styles for readers, deepening their grasp of literature and culture. Curators have to also add introductions that give context to the works, making it easier for readers to see the importance of each piece in the larger literary scene. Monica Das has successfully met these expectations. This Selection highlights Senapati’s creations that established a framework in which the ordinary individual became the focal point.
Says Monica in the introduction: “Fakir Mohan Senapati is a giant in the field of Indian literature, who belonged to Odisha. He brought about a revolution in novel writing by departing from romance and writing on social realism. His portrayal of the common man and his concerns predated those of Premchand and Rabindranath Tagore, the other giants of Indian literature.
“His writing had elements which, apart from promoting secular attitudes, helped bring about social changes, to which he also contributed directly as the Dewan of some of the princely states of Odisha in British India. Odisha is the first state in India to have been established on the basis of language, for which he laid the foundation.”
Fakir Mohan distinguishes himself from his predecessors in the field of Odia prose through his unique use of language: “His liberal use of terse proverbs and the folksy style of his writings is what catches the reader’s immediate attention. Besides this, it adds to the rustic wisdom of his characters. In his stories, one cannot miss the underlying concern with social reform. He always took care to depict an honest view of life. Though he takes a didactic stance in his writings, he took care to see that this did not militate against realism and the smooth flow of the narrative. Fakir Mohan’s characters were drawn from ordinary life from among peasants, weavers, barbers, milkmen, revenue clerks and teachers. Very few belong to the higher ranks of the society. He set the tone of the common man. For the first time, ordinary readers were touched by the fact that stories were written about them, about their concerns, their agonies, exploitations and bitter-sweet experiences. Fakir Mohan was indeed a consummate artist with a keen eye for minute details.”
The Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati spans approximately four hundred pages and presents the intriguing perspective of a remarkable individual. He was more than merely a writer; he was a social reformer, a patriot, and a cunning strategist, serving as the dewan of the princely states of Odisha during the period of colonial rule.
Concludes Monica in the book: “It’s a strife-torn world that we live in today. Fakir Mohan’s works, considered unparalleled internationally, hold even greater significance now because of the centrality of humane modes that form the essence of his writings. The compilation in the Selection presents all this and more.”
The volume serves as a comprehensive and curated resource on Fakir Mohan’s literary works, significantly enhancing the current body of literature dedicated to the father of Odia literature.
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Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
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“Mom, if you stick this on your head, your splitting head will heal. Here, take it and stick it on,” said four-year-old Ravi, handing over a roll of round plaster.
“Who told you to stick this for a headache?” Rajani asked in surprise, not quite understanding what he meant.
“Earlier, you told the neighbour aunty that your head was splitting. That’s why I brought it. Whenever something in the house tears, Dad sticks it with this. You should stick it on your head so it doesn’t split,” Ravi replied innocently.
Rajani laughed at her son’s sweet words. As a festival was on in the village, Rajani had invited her parents, siblings, and their families to her home. With everyone staying at her house, her daily chores had increased. Even though she woke up at dawn to start working, she couldn’t finish everything. Just then, the neighbour had come asking for a loan of some sesame oil.
“No matter how much I do, the work never ends. My hands are hurting, and my head is splitting,” Rajani had told the neighbour.
Ravi heard these words, and to help his mom, he brought the plaster his dad used to stick his brother’s torn books. He told his mother to stick it on her head to ease her headache. Now, Rajani understood the situation and laughed at her son’s cleverness.
“Why are you laughing? Won’t the headache go away if you stick this?” Ravi asked innocently again.
“You don’t stick plaster for a splitting head. A splitting head means I have a headache. If I apply Amrutanjan[1], it will go away,” Rajani explained in a way he could understand.
Rajani shared the incident with the rest of the family, and they all had a good laugh.
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That afternoon, the family sat down for lunch. Rajani served a curry made with chicken eggs to everyone.
“What is this?” Ravi asked. Rajani replied that it was a chicken egg.
“I want a donkey egg,” he said.
At first, Rajani didn’t understand what he meant. Everyone else also looked at Ravi with interest.
“There’s no such thing as a donkey egg. There are chicken eggs and duck eggs,” his grandmother tried to explain to Ravi.
“No, there is. I want that one,” Ravi insisted, starting to cry. No matter how much they tried to explain, he didn’t stop crying.
Ravi’s father suspected that someone must have mentioned it, as kids don’t come up with these things on their own. He took Ravi close and gently asked, “Who told you about a donkey egg? Tell me, and I’ll ask them to bring it for you.”
Hearing this, Ravi’s face lit up, and he pointed to his grandfather.
Everyone’s attention turned to the grandfather. “Did you tell him about it? Is there such a thing as a donkey egg?” everyone questioned him.
“Hold on! Why would I tell him that? Give me a moment to think,” the grandfather replied, trying to recall the incident. After some thinking, he remembered something.
That morning, one of the workers had done a job incorrectly, and in anger, the grandfather had said, “Is this how you do it? This is not a donkey egg!” Ravi, who was sitting on his grandfather’s lap at that time, heard these words. He had asked what a donkey egg was, but his grandfather, in his irritation, didn’t respond.
After learning the real story from the grandfather, the rest of the family laughed. Ravi’s father lovingly explained to Ravi that there’s no such thing as a donkey egg and that it was just an expression his grandfather used. It took some convincing, but eventually, Ravi understood.
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Ravi also had an elder brother named Ramu, who was eight years old. Whenever Ramu came home from school, he and Ravi would fight over something or the other.
One day, as soon as they returned from school, they fought over the TV remote, leaving Rajani, already exhausted from housework, feeling more frustrated.
“I told you to change out of your school uniforms and wash your hands and feet when you come home. I’ve kept snacks on the table. Instead of eating, why are you fighting? Behave, or I’ll smack you with a hot spatula,” Rajani said.
“Mom, I want that. Don’t give it to my brother. Spank me now,” Ravi cried, running to his mom.
“What did you understand? Do you know what a spank is?” Rajani asked, calming down.
“Oh, I know. It’s a hot pancake. I’m hungry. Please spank me quickly,” Ravi said innocently. Hearing his sweet words, Rajani’s frustration disappeared, and she laughed wholeheartedly.
She kissed Ravi on his cheek and said, “Wait. I’ll get you the snacks,” and ran to the kitchen.
Rajani realised, “We shouldn’t use such words in front of children. They can misunderstand and repeat them in front of others, causing embarrassment.” From that day on, she learned to be cautious with her words around Ravi.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map edited by Basudhara Roy and Jaydeep Sarangi anthologises twenty contemporary poets. This book unveils a large canvas of poems penned by poets hailing from diverse locations and cultures, evoking thoughts on existential dilemmas of the contemporary world. The 391 pages of the anthology comprise poems by multiple poets: Adil Jussawalla, Arundhati Subramaniam, Ashwani Kumar, Bashabi Fraser, Bibhu Padhi, Jayant Mahapatra, K. Satchidanandan, K.Srilata, Keki N.Daruwalla, Lakshmi Kannan, Mamang Dai, Nabina Das, Robin S. Ngangom, Sanjukta Dasgupta, Tabish Khair, Usha Akella, Yogesh Patel and more
Every poem entails evocative images, visual and syntactic cues that put forth poetics of everyday life. Traversing maps and minds, this engaging collection of two hundred poems unravels different places and persons. The anthology is a poetic narrative and holistic exploration of locating oneself through language. As the book brings together experiences and knowledge of space, it pushes readers to rethink how landscape shape identity.
Memories encompassing reflections on landscapes, ancient history, myth, family, home, towns, cities, countries, music, seasons, elements of nature, disasters, wants, love and wounds of Homo Sapiens, women, mother as well as immigrants abounds the creation of every poet. Memories of special days, seasons, cities and cultures culminate in the compositions of Mamang Dai. Nabina Das’ creations talk about death and else. Sanjukta Dasgupta juxtaposes past and present to celebrate free spirit ofKali, Alakshmi and Millenial Sita.
This compilation, published by Sahitya Akademi, is an itinerary for dreamers and travellers alike. Ten poems by each poet weave a tapestry of emotions, experiences, moments and memories that define persons, places, practices and cultures. Every word, image and syntactical turn in these poems moves readers to discover poet’s emotional state. Events and myriad experiences, memorable and unpleasant, form an intricate reflection on life. The poems are also revelations about the contemporary world. The mosaic of memories present a ceaseless stream of significant moments that mould the minds and the maps. The compositions heighten consciousness, enrich the understanding of readers and deepen their humanity. The poems make the readers encounter hardships, moments of despair, compassion, empathy and resilience to extract invaluable insights. Reflections on difficult and dark times infuse renewed strength to deal with adversity.
Every poet uses different linguistic register to delve into solitude, decay, death and a new force that nurtures mind as well as takes to greater understanding about existence. “When Landscape Becomes Woman” by Arundhati Subramaniam reveals “That a chink in a wall is all you need to tumble into a parallel universe”. Whether it is Bashabi Fraser’s “Mothers All” claiming, “They are the bravest soldiers-marching on”, or Adil Jussawalla’s “Refuge” telling “Mother tells her rosary from six to seven, her one hour refuge,” each poet, irrespective of gender, envisions an independent and autonomous identity. “What’s wrong with us Kali women?”, “Maryada[1] and modern Draupadi”, “Woman in a Landscape” by Adil Jussawalla, “History”, “Draupadi”, “Partition Ghazal”, “The Tribal Goddess” and “Patna to Nalanda-1979” by Keki N.Daruwalla transport readers from past to present and illuminate multi-facets of life. “Somewhere like a shadow in the night like a black mineral in the earth, /Somewhere in a mirror where you can see your dreams a poem awaits deftly angled light,” writes Keki Daruwalla. Ashwani Kumar’s poems dwell on Alzheimer’s, lies emerging from deception, town vanished in the reservoir of waters and the strange ways of the world.
The deftly crafted poems blend imagery, thoughts and experiences. Many of the poems are centred on home, landscape and seasons. Titles of a few poems like “Mitti[2]’, “Bhakti[3]”, “Haldi[4]”, “Mahaprajapati[5]”, “O Boisakh[6]” and “Lopamudra[7]” have not been provided with a translation. Supplementing these titles are poems like “Earthrise”, “Missives of Music”, “The Same Moon from Edinburgh to Calcutta: A Refracted Lens”, “Sunrise at Puri-on-Sea”, “The River” and “Earth Day”.
The poems ranging from prose to typographic and linguistic variations, Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map speaks to larger issues of urban Indian identity, acceptance, adaptation and cultural estrangement. These map the poetics of womanhood, the body, institution, family and love. By doing so, the anthology erases traditional boundaries to develop a new poetic form. The poems are ensembles of words that unite to present verbal, vocal and visual sphere of communication.
This three-dimensional language becomes carrier of aesthetic message of the poet. The reduction of language to a word or fragments in many of the poems is similar to the reduction of landscape to map elements selectively and generally. This gives a distinct charm to the anthology. The poems explode with bird-names, names of cities and countries making these compositions a dialectical map. Very aptly the poems, as Howard McCord contends, can be comprehended as “a map on which articulation of consciousness can be charted, and the serial flow we associate with prose can be gathered into clusters and islands of words which reveal the individual’s voice and vision, even his philosophical stance, more accurately than a line broken by a general rule imposed.” Poems in Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map are maps that offer ways to know simplified, generalised and selective views on the world and human existence.
Dr Navleen Multani is Associate Professor, Head, School of Languages, and Director, Public Relations at Jagat Guru Nanak Dev Punjab State Open University, Patiala (India). She is Area Editor with Oxford Online Bibliographies: Literary and Critical Theory.
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